


Come Monday, It'll Be Alright

by crisiskris



Category: Instinct (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Compliant, Canon m/m, M/M, Whump, because I can't help whumping, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisiskris/pseuds/crisiskris
Summary: Dylan uncharacteristically tries to avoid trouble on a new case and trouble finds him anyway.





	Come Monday, It'll Be Alright

Dylan Reinhart opened his eyes and smiled, snuggling into the weight of the quilt. Andy was warm and quiet beside him, breathing deeply. The sun was beaming in around the shutters and he could hear the vague sounds of traffic and above them, a crow calling somewhere.

Monday mornings were his favourite. He didn’t teach on Mondays and Andy closed early at the bar on Sunday nights, which meant they went to bed together and they woke up together. Speaking of which… he rolled over, draping one leg over Andy’s muscular thigh, pulling Andy’s heavy arm around him so he could sneak in closer. Andy made a happy, sleepy little noise, his smile betraying his wakefulness, and Dylan purposefully wiggled in against his chest, letting one hand trail down Andy’s bare side and under the elastic of his boxers. He cupped Andy’s ass and urged him forward, and Andy made a much more awake happy sound when Dylan’s other thigh brushed against his cock.

“I love Mondays,” Andy whispered in his ear, his own hands travelling slowly down Dylan’s back. Dylan tipped his head up just as Andy’s came down, nipping at the skin along Dylan’s neck.

“Me too,” he whispered back, his breath hitching as Andy rolled them, trapping Dylan underneath his weight. “Ah…”

The phone rang.

++

“We’ve got another one,” Lizzie said, passing him without breaking stride. Dylan rushed to follow her down the hallway as the elevator doors closed behind him.

“Same profile?” He asked, unwinding his scarf and stuffing it in his pocket.

“Yup,” she had led him to the white board where she now gestured at a new picture. “Middle aged, Caucasian male, brown hair, slim build. Found naked with his hands bound, gunshot wound to the head, just off the East River Bikeway near the bridge.”

“Drugged and raped?”

“Forensic evidence is still being analyzed, but I’m willing to bet yes.”

“So am I,” Dylan replied, studying the board. Four victims, now. He shook his head.

“What is it?” Lizzie asked, catching the tension in his face.

“I wouldn’t want to theorize,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Just say it,” she sighed.

He smiled his sudden smile, the one that seemed to alight on his face whenever Lizzie gave him permission to be his weird self. But the smile faded quickly as he gestured at the board. “The pattern shows every indication of a sadistic sexual killer,” he said. “The choice of victim, the consistency, the timing between crimes… but the lack of violence doesn’t fit.”

“He rapes them and shoots them in the head,” she answered bluntly.

He smiled. He always enjoyed the way she argued against his theories. “Lack of violence, relatively speaking,” he clarified. “Most sadistic killers do a lot worse.” His eyes unfocused as he thought it out. “He’s controlling his impulses.”

“Four victims,” she rejoined.

“Not the impulse to kill, but the impulse to torture, to destroy. He’s holding back for some reason.”

“Okay, so what does that mean?”

Dylan sighed. “It means that if we don’t catch him, it’s going to get a lot worse. Serial sexual killers, they’re impulsive, wild. When he does finally let go, god knows what he’ll do.”

“Well, great,” Lizzie answered. “We’ll just catch him before he escalates then,” she didn’t roll her eyes, but it was clear the restraint took effort.

Dylan just stared at her. “Escalation, of course. Lizzie, you’re brilliant.” He grabbed her hand and steered her toward her desk, ignoring the teasing comment she made about her superior detective skills as he urged her to sit down. “I’ve been approaching this from the wrong angle. I’ve been thinking of him as a killer, but he didn’t start as a killer.”

“You think he’s raped men that he didn’t kill?”

“I’m sure of it,” Dylan replied. “There are numerous instances of serial rapists escalating to murder. They crave dominance and control, and assault ceases to be enough to satisfy their craving.”

Lizzie started typing. “Don’t hold your breath,” she cautioned, entering details from their victims to match as parameters. “Men over the age of fifty are probably the least likely demographic to report a sexual assault.” The computer beeped.

“One did,” Dylan replied, pointing at the screen.

“It’s only two years old. I’ll get forensics to compare the DNA evidence collected from this assault to that collected from our victims, see if it’s a match,” Lizzie said, typing quickly. “Since we’re just running a comparison of two completed summaries, it won’t take that long.”

“It’ll match,” Dylan said, staring at the picture of the victim on the screen. “He fits the profile.”

“Let’s make sure,” she replied.

+++

A few hours later, DNA confirmation in hand, they headed up the stairs to a third-floor walk-up and knocked on the door of the second apartment on the left.

Ray Desmond was a short, slim man with brown hair and a beard that was yellowing into grey. He had a dead bolt and a chain lock on his door, and he made them both show ID before he removed the latter. He was wearing a thick grey sweater, jeans, and slippers on his feet. The apartment was stuffy, the couch covered in blankets that Mr. Desmond hastily pushed aside so that Dylan and Lizzie could perch there. He didn’t offer them anything to drink.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Desmond,” Lizzie said gently. “I know that what happened to you was traumatic, and I’m sorry to have to go over old memories.”

“It’s fine,” Mr. Desmond said, even though it clearly wasn’t. “You said you were from homicide? Did the man who… attacked me, did he kill someone?”

“Four people, that we know of,” Dylan interjected, ignoring Lizzie’s cautionary look. “DNA is a match to the rape kit collected from your assault.”

“My god.” Mr. Desmond looked down at his hands.

“I’m so sorry, but if you wouldn’t mind recounting what happened to you. Any small bit of information might be a big help,” Lizzie’s voice was pitched soft, sympathetic.

“Of course.” He twisted a ring around his index finder as he began recounting his experience – dancing in the club, feeling woozy, someone helping him outside, and then waking up in a motel room with his wrists bound and his clothes off.

“Do you remember the assault?” Lizzie asked.

“Parts of it,” Mr. Desmond acknowledged. “Do I have to get into all that?”

“No,” Lizzie answered gently. “Just anything you can remember about the man himself.”

Mr. Desmond shrugged. “Like I told the police at the time, it’s all a blur,” he said. He shook his head. “He was tall, strong. Deep voice. Dark hair. Sorry.”

Dylan leaned forward. “What about his demeanor?” he asked. “Do you remember anything about the way he acted? Anything that might suggest his emotional state?”

Lizzie drew breath to say something chastising but Mr. Desmond was nodding, so she stayed quiet. “Yeah,” he said. “He seemed… disappointed. He told me that I’d put on a much better show at the club – I liked to dance, but I’ve always been a lot quieter one-on-one.”

“And he wanted you to react more,” Dylan suggested.

“I think so, yeah. I think he was hoping I’d fight more. But I was so out of it, and, and I guess in shock? Like, there was part of me that never really believed this was even happening. How could I react if it wasn’t even really happening?” Mr. Desmond looked away; his face pinched.

“I’m so sorry,” Dylan said softly, touching his knee.

Mr. Desmond gave him a wistful smile. “I guess I should be grateful I’m not dead,” he replied darkly. Lizzie stood, gesturing with her eyes for Dylan to follow, and they left Mr. Desmond to his memories.

+++

Lieutenant Jasmine Gooden was outside the precinct, surrounded by cameras, when they arrived back, giving the press an update that aimed for reassuring without being fully misleading. It was a dangerous game – keep the public calm without provoking the killer further. They weaved around the reporters and headed up the few steps to the glass doors, trying to be discreet as they passed behind her and into the building.

They almost walked right into Fucci coming out as they were entering the squad room. He looked wrung out. It made Dylan stop in his tracks. “Anthony,” he said. “Are you all right?” Fucci glanced at him, glanced down at Lizzie, and then painted on a smile.

“I’m fine, Doc,” he said. “Just getting some air.” He stepped around them and lumbered toward the elevator.

“He’s not fine,” Dylan said as they headed to their desks. “I know I’m still the new guy around here, but I feel confident in my judgment that Fucci isn’t given toward emotional displays, and he looked positively upset.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to poke into people’s private lives?” Lizzie replied, shuffling the folders on her desk.

“Someone should talk to him,” Dylan responded, glancing back toward the door.

Lizzie set down her files, catching his eyes and smiling to show her appreciation. “It’s great that you care, but he has a partner,” she reminded him.

“Marino doesn’t seem like the talking type.”

“Neither is Fucci.” Dylan bobbed his head, acknowledging the point. “Can we get back to the case, please?”

“Yes, we can,” Dylan answered, twisting back around. “I have an idea.”

+++

15 minutes later the senior detectives were gathered in the conference room. They stood around with their arms crossed, taking the lead from their Lieutenant and not sitting despite the plethora of chairs, as Dylan explained his theory.

“A sting?” Jasmine had the art of the skeptical expression nailed and was using it to full effect.

“Yes,” Dylan replied, visibly restraining himself from launching into an even more in-depth analysis than he’d just presented.

“How do we know it’ll work?”

“It’s what the victim, Mr. Desmond, said about being a disappointment to his attacker. He said the killer seemed let down that he didn’t try to fight harder. That got me thinking. All of our victims were known on the bar scene. The bartenders and DJs all remembered seeing them. They were noticeable in the club, memorable. But the people that knew them personally described them with words like ‘quiet’, ‘thoughtful’, ‘kind’, ‘soft’…

Our killer has been using their behaviour in the clubs as a proxy for assertiveness and spirit. He’s looking for someone that meets his expectations. That’s what he’s holding out for. Someone feisty and flamboyant that will put up a fight. I know we can capture his attention if we put just the right kind of person in front of him.”

“You think you can pull of feisty and flamboyant, Doc?” Harris asked.

“Wait, you?” Lizzie interjected. “You can’t possibly be thinking we’d put you in the field.”

“Why not? It can’t have escaped your notice that I fit the profile. I’m the right age, the right ethnicity; I have a slim build and I’m openly gay. All of our victims frequent known gay nightclubs.”

“I don’t know,” Jasmine said. “You have very little field experience.”

Dylan looked discomfited at that, but of course he couldn’t say anything without opening a whole can of worms about his past, and Lizzie took advantage of that bit of leverage to pipe up in agreement with Jasmine. “I don’t like it.”

But even as she said it, she could see Jasmine’s face soften into thoughtfulness. “You really think this will get his attention?”

“I do, yes. Think about it. He’s got all the markings of a sadist except for the visible sadism. He must be boiling with frustration that he can’t find the satisfaction he’s looking for. All these victims, so far – this is him making do. We can use this to our advantage. We can manipulate him; give him a target that’s impossible to resist.”

“No offence, Doc, but you don’t seem like much of a dancer,” Harris interjected.

“I don’t have to be good; I just have to be extravagant,” Dylan replied.

“You could flush him out without having to expose yourself to potentially being roofied,” Lizzie argued.

“But that’s part of his pattern, Lizzie. If I don’t drink and become affected by the drug, he’ll consider it a failed attempt and just slide into the background before we ever catch him.”

“We can have eyes on your drink, though,” she argued, “And the second anyone puts anything into it, nail ‘em.”

“Nah, the Doc is right,” Harris said, “It’s gotta be the real deal.” He looked expectantly at the Lieutenant.

She did a quick sweep of her top guns. Lizzie and Fucci’s faces were clearly saying no, Dylan and Harris were clearly saying yes, and Marino looked a little worried, which meant he was leaning toward yes but didn’t fully trust Dylan to sell the sting.

She did, she decided. “I don’t love the plan,” she finally said, “But Dylan has a better chance of pulling it off than anyone else I can think of. But Lizzie’s right - we need to go heavy on protection on this one,” she warned, and a sea of nodding faces responded.

“Good,” Dylan said, pleased. “Come on Lizzie. All five of our victims were regular bar-hoppers. We have to figure out where the killer’s going to go fishing next. And find me something to wear.”

+++

The next few hours were spent poring over websites and maps, trying to determine where the killer was likely to hunt for victims, and planning the operation. After some discussion, they’d settled on Thursday night as the night. It fit the timing of when the killer would likely strike again, if the pattern held, and gave them some time to prepare. Plus, Harris pointed out, Thursday night was when the bar scene picked up.

“You would know how?” Fucci asked, and Harris made some crack about Fucci’s lack of social life that left the burly Italian red-faced and angry. He charged into the break room just as Dylan was turning to leave and they crashed into each other.

“Watch it!” Fucci practically shouted.

Dylan’s eyebrows rose practically to his hairline as he reached for a towel to mop of the coffee that had sloshed out of the cup he was holding.

“You have to be more careful,” Fucci told him. “You gotta think of other people. You’re too reckless.” He turned on his heel and stomped off toward the men’s room.

“What has all that about?” Lizzie asked when Dylan returned, handing her a decidedly less-than-full cup of coffee.

“I honestly have no idea,” Dylan answered. “I told you, something’s wrong with Fucci.”

“Fucci’s in therapy,” another voice contributed. Dylan turned around just as Harris came up from the Lieutenant’s office, his hands full of Surveillance Equipment Request Forms. “Just ignore him.”

“Therapy for what?” Dylan asked without thinking.

“Mind your own business,” Lizzie sing-songed, signing off on one of the forms and handing it back to Harris. “Both of you,” she added, pinning Dylan down with her gaze.

“All right, all right,” he said, raising his hands in defeat. “I understand. We have bigger fish to fry.”

+++

“So how was your day?” Andy asked as Dylan stepped into the house that afternoon. Dylan smiled, happy that he got home before Andy left for work. 

“Good,” Dylan replied, taking his coat off and moving to join his husband on the sofa.

“Just good?” Andy replied. “Nothing new and exciting you want to tell me?”

“Well, it was as good as any day that involves hunting serial murders can be.” He snuggled into Andy’s shoulder, and Andy’s arms came around to hold him tightly. Too tightly. Dylan pulled back. “What? What is it? You’re upset.”

“I just want you to be careful, when you’re working,” Andy said, pulling Dylan in again. Dylan allowed it, crinkling his brow at Andy’s worried tone.

“You haven’t sounded this worried since before I quit the Agency,” Dylan said.

“You haven’t gone under cover to try to bait a serial killer before,” Andy replied.

“You know about that?”

Andy pulled away, rising to his feet. He paced in front of Dylan. “Yes, I ‘know about that’ – Fucci called. He thought I should know. For some reason he didn’t think you’d tell me.”

“Oh, Andy… honey, I – I don’t want you to worry.” Dylan stood, laying a hand on Andy’s chest to stop the pacing, looking up at him.

“You’re doing it again,” Andy accused. “You’re jumping in full-force without any thought about what you might be getting into, and Dylan, it’s not the same as it was when you were in the CIA. If something happened…” Andy choked, looking away and clearing his throat. Dylan pulled him into another hug. Andy wrapped his arms around the smaller man, leaning his head on top of Dylan’s. “If something happened,” he continued, “You know you’d be leaving something behind now.”

“I know,” Dylan said into Andy’s chest, feeling Andy’s heart thudding. “I promise you; I know. I knew it back then, too.”

“Then don’t do it,” Andy said. “I’ve been looking at your damn murder board. I know what this guy does. I couldn’t bear something like that happening to you.”

“It won’t,” Dylan answered, swaying their bodies gently as Andy buried his face in his shoulder.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m going in with full back up. I’ll have a wire, Lizzie will be listening, Marino’s going to be in the bar, and Fucci and Clark will both be outside watching all the exits. The worst thing that will happen is the guy roofies me before we get any kind of confirmation that he’s our man, and then Lizzie takes him down for assault, and you get stuck taking care of me until the drugs are out of my system.”

“That’s pretty terrible, and you and I both know that’s not the worst that can happen.” One of Andy’s hands slid up into Dylan’s hair, caressing him. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Andy…”

“I mean it.”

“Andy, it’s not the first time I’ve ever done something risky,” he said.

Andy pulled out of the embrace and crossed his arms. “I’m not insulting your abilities, Dylan. I know you can take care of yourself. I know you know how to fight, and you know how to shoot, and you know all that super secret spy stuff. It’s not about whether you can do it. What I’m saying is, I can’t stand the thought of sitting around waiting to find out how it went, not knowing where you are or if you’re safe. I just can’t stand it. I’m just asking you not to do this, for me.”

Dylan watched him carefully, taking in the way he hunched over himself, braced against imagined pain. It broke his heart, seeing Andy so hurt. “All right,” he said softly, reaching for his husband.

“All right? You won’t go?”

“I won’t go. I told you when I left the Agency that nothing was more important to me than our relationship, and I meant it. If you feel this strongly, then I won’t do it. I won’t have you worry about my safety, never again.”

Andy closed the space between them in a rush, engulfing him. Dylan leaned his head back against Andy’s chest, remembering when they’d first lived together, those months before he’d taken the leap and chosen Andy over the Agency: he’d finally stumble in the door, exhausted and dirty and haunted from whatever mission he’d just concluded, and Andy would be there, slouched on the couch with a drink in his hand, fighting back tears of relief just to see him.

“Thank you,” Andy whispered in his hair.

++

Tuesday morning did not start out well for Lizzie. She slept through the alarm. Gary threw up all over the hallway floor and she barely had time to spray some carpet cleaner on the mess and take him out to do his business before she had to fly out the door to catch her carpool ride. She had to stop at the coroner’s office on her way in to review some paperwork for another case, and of course got stuck waiting for well over an hour just to receive a routine report that only confirmed that a death that looked like an accident was probably indeed an accident. The Medical Examiner was feeling chatty and it took her another 20 minutes to extract herself from the conversation.

The forecast had called for brief showers, so she hailed a cab, which of course meant that it only rained hard for the few minutes it took her to run from the street to the front door of the precinct. Then she had to play the you-go-left-I’ll-go-right game with some tall, dark, and definitely not handsome schmuck who was lurking around the door and gave her the stink eye as she tried to around him. She arrived at the squad room bedraggled and decidedly late. It was almost 11:30 by the time she landed at her desk.

Jasmine was waiting for her. “I need you to put a hold on those surveillance orders,” she said.

“Huh? Why?”

Jasmine looked at her quizzically. “No point in processing the paperwork until we know for sure we have someone to send now that Dylan’s backed out of the sting. Otherwise we’re just going to get our knuckles wrapped by the quality assurance guys.”

“Dylan backed out?” Lizzie was still trying to catch her breath.

“First thing this morning,” she replied. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No. He did not.”

She obediently put a hold on their requisitions and then went in search of her partner. He was in the break room, chatting with Fucci and Marino about what Fucci could do for his next backyard BBQ.

“What’s going on?” she demanded as she walked in.

“Nice to see you too, Lizzie,” Marino said, getting the hell out. Fucci turned to the sink, banging around some dishes.

“You get everyone worked up, build up this big case for an undercover operation, convince me you’re the only person who can do it, and then you back out?”

“Take it easy, Liz,” Fucci said, but she ignored him.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “I… I was being reckless.”

Reckless. It was exactly the word that Fucci had used yesterday. She glanced at the other Detective, asking with her eyes.

“Hey, I thought you’d be happy,” Fucci defended. “I thought you liked the Doc.”

Lizzie huffed out a sigh. “I do like him – I do like you,” she said, turning back to Dylan. She hadn’t missed the little worried expression that had darkened his face momentarily. “And I’m grateful that you’re thinking twice about things instead of just wildly leaping forward. I’m just… really surprised.”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said again, reading the subtext. “I should have said something to you before I told the Lieutenant.”

“Yes, you should have,” she replied, not quite willing to let it go. “I’m your partner. But it’s okay.” Dylan looked at her uncertainly, so she smiled.

“Come on, Doc, I’ll buy you lunch,” Fucci said, swinging an arm around Dylan’s shoulders. Lizzie watched them go, feeling relieved but also still a little miffed.

“We’ll find someone else,” Harris said, appearing at her elbow. “Maybe Barker over in Major Crimes – he’s pretty skinny, right age.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am not sad that the only person in the squad who is not actually a police officer won’t be going under cover. I just didn’t expect him to do an about-face like that without talking to me first,” Lizzie replied.

“Eh, Fucci did it,” Harris explained. At Lizzie’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “Blame it on the couple’s therapy. Fucci’s been trying to be more honest with his wife, and since we all knew Dylan wouldn’t tell Andy about something like this, he took it upon himself. I think he’s sort of adopted them as his token gay friends.”

“Fucci called Andy,” Lizzie summarized. “I didn’t realize they were buddies.”

Harris rolled his eyes. “That’s because you never come out with us anymore, Liz. Dylan invited us to Andy’s bar a couple of times and Fucci and Andy get on pretty good; they talk once in a while. So Fucci – it’s one of those It’s one of those over-compensation things, you know? Fucci already fucked up his marriage so now he’s going to save Dylan’s. So, he called, and Andy talked Dylan out of it. Are you surprised?”

Lizzie gazed back down the now-empty hall. “A little,” she admitted. “I mean, I know Andy’s no pushover, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dylan back down from a case before. And I would have expected Dylan to be angry with Fucci for interfering, not go to lunch with him.”

“I’m guessing that whatever Andy said, it knocked some sense into him. And, now you know who to call the next time your partner’s not listening to you.” Lizzie laughed. “Come on,” Harris continued, “We got like a hundred gay nightclubs to narrow down. Let’s divvy up this list.”

+++

Fucci and Marino returned together a little over an hour later, but Dylan wasn’t with them. “What did you do with my partner?” she asked as they walked in.

“Sent him home,” Fucci answered. “He said he was feeling dizzy. Lucky for him there was an empty cab sitting outside, so we sent the poor sap on his way.”

“Yeah,” Marino added. “Didn’t take him for a guy who couldn’t hold his liquor.”

Lizzie felt her heart pick up speed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“The guy has one drink with lunch, goes to the bathroom, comes out slurring and…oh, shit.” Marino and Fucci’s eyes both widened at the same time, which would have been comical in any other circumstance.

“What is it?” Harris said, coming back from the printer with his list of clubs in hand.

“I think we’re not the only ones who realized that our police consultant perfectly fits the victim profile of our serial killer,” Lizzie hissed, dialing Dylan’s cellphone.

“Huh? Who else?”

“The killer!”

“What? Come on.”

“He fits the profile, remember? And Marino just said he was fine one minute, slurring like he was drunk the next.”

“Well, where the hell is he?”

“We put him in a cab,” Marino said.

“He’s not answering,” Lizzie said, trying again.

“Okay,” Harris said, taking charge. “Let’s not panic here. But,” he continued, waving one hand at Lizzie to cut off the protest she was about to make. “Let’s not make any assumptions either. Let’s try and track the Doc down, make sure he’s okay.”

“I’ll call the cab company and see who was dispatched to that street,” Marino said.

“I’m going back to the bar.” Fucci’s face was almost purple with self-directed rage. 

Lizzie dialed again. “Come on, Dylan, pick up, pick up!”

++

“Oh, that’s my phone,” Dylan said, scrambling for his pocket. He’d been feeling slightly dizzy in the bar with Fucci and Marino; now he was feeling downright drunk. The cab took a corner a bit fast and he slid in his seat, his phone falling out of his hands. It disappeared beneath the driver’s seat in front of him just as it stopped ringing. “Damn,” he swore. He could hear it faintly start to ring again.

“You can get it when we get there,” the cab driver said, which seemed reasonable, and Dylan sat back, his head spinning. The streets seemed wrong. There must be construction somewhere. He closed his eyes, feeling nauseated.

Time seemed to warp; he wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the car when it suddenly stopped. He opened his eyes. “Where are we?” He asked. This didn’t look right. Where had he asked the car to take him? Home? The bar? He couldn’t remember.

The door opened and hands reached around him; he batted at them confusedly as his seatbelt clicked off and then someone was urging him out of the car, directing him toward a building. “Wait,” he said, “my phone.” The hands tightened on his waist. “Stop.” Dylan dug his heels in, pulling away in a stumble.

“Come on, baby, it’ll be good,” the voice said.

“What?”

Hands were on him again and Dylan shoved back. “Get the hell off me,” he said, his fingers curling into fists. He tried to fall back into a defensive stance, but his body was shaking; his knees unsteady.

“Bitch.” The hands came at him again, grabbing his hair and pulling him forward. “You like it rough, don’t you?”

Dylan twisted in the grip, unable to get loose, as he was dragged across the threshold. He heard the door slam behind them. Finally, he managed to get a good hold on the arm attached to the hand in his hair and he planted his feet, using the other man’s weight to throw him over one shoulder. His scalp burned as he felt some of his hair tear out. The effort knocked him off balance too; he landed on his knees. He was too dizzy and shaky to find his feet, so he turned and started crawling for the door.

Hands grabbed his belt and he found himself thrown back against the hard floor. The air whooshed out of his bruised lungs. “Finally,” the voice above him said. “Someone who knows how to dance.” Something glinted in the filtered sunlight that filled the room and Dylan brought up his hands just in time; the blade cut down across the palm of his left hand and over his right forearm. Blood spilled; the cut was deep. Dylan gasped, getting one foot underneath him to push himself up, trying to slide away.

He didn’t get far. A weight settled on top of him, and he felt the knife cut below his ribs, slashing. The man crushed his groin against Dylan’s. He felt the other man’s erection press into him, and his addled mind finally flashed on what was happening.

“It’s you,” he managed, and the man laughed, his lips near Dylan’s ear, the knife lacerating underneath, into his back this time.

“We’re going to have fun,” he promised, licking Dylan’s cheek. Lips smashed down on top of his and Dylan turned his face away, swallowing against disgust. He managed to get his hands between them and pushed up, trying to get the knife back into view. He was rewarded with an elbow to the face that made his ears ring.

The weight lifted but Dylan was too disoriented to take advantage, and he felt himself being pulled up and flipped over, the hands reaching around his waist to undo his belt. He felt the zipper on his pants go down, one hand invading inside his trousers, squeezing, and he bucked up, pushing the other man off. He crawled away again and had made it a few feet when he felt another sharp pain in his back – the knife, still slicing. All part of the game. He tried to breathe past it, keep moving away. He had to get out of the house and onto the street where there was a chance somebody might see them.

He hit a wall and laid his hands flat on it, using it to pull himself up, gasping for breath. Adrenaline was clearing the fog in his mind and he started putting the pieces together. He’d been drugged like the others. But the killer was changing his _modus operandi_ : he was finally letting go. Dylan turned.

The man was standing before him, waiting, an expression of elation on his face. He’d pulled Dylan’s belt off without him realizing it and held it in one hand, a thick, heavy blade in the other. “No gun?” Dylan asked, wheezing, his vision greying slightly with every pounding heartbeat. He must be bleeding more heavily than he’d realized, he thought dimly.

“I don’t need that anymore,” the man replied. “I’ve been waiting for a man like you.” He smiled. Dylan didn’t need two PhDs to understand what that smile meant. He just had to get out into the street. He edged back along the wall, slowly, keeping his eyes on the predator before him.

“You wanted someone that would fight back,” Dylan replied, taking another slow step along the wall as the man stepped in. “But he had to fit the profile.”

“I never thought ‘cop’ until I saw you on the news,” the man replied. “Did a little googling and… you’re perfect.” Dylan shut his eyes briefly. Damn it. He’d walked through the cameras’ capture radius when Jasmine gave her press release. Of course, the killer would be watching all the news about himself.

“You’re bleeding beautifully for me.” Dylan’s heart stuttered; the man had gotten much closer in his moment of distraction. Dylan had just enough time to block as the knife swung down toward his shoulder. He pushed hard on the swinging arm and was rewarded with the man’s cry of pain as his elbow wrenched beyond its range of motion. The knife clattered to the floor. Dylan dove for it.

He didn’t make it. The man grabbed his pants again and he felt the button holding them on pop as he was pulled backward. The fabric separated along the line of his undone zipper and the pants slid off his hips, down around his thighs, as he scrambled to get away. He cried out involuntarily as something dug into his left hip, tearing the skin, accompanied by a stinging across his buttock. The pain came again, and Dylan realized he was being whipped with his belt. The man planted one hand on his back and a knee on the back of his knee, pressing him into the floor. The belt whipped down a third time, catching him across the ribs. The man laughed. Dylan couldn’t get any traction with his feet, his pants tangled around his calves, so he placed his bleeding hands in front of him and put his weight into his arms. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he pushed through, forcing himself up.

The body slid off him momentarily but then the weight was back, heavier this time as the man lay on top of him, one hand sliding around his throat and squeezing while the other one hooked into the waistband of his underwear, trying to jerk it down. Dylan dropped his chin to force some space between the man’s fingers and his windpipe and gasped in air. His hands were still in front of him. He pushed back again, slamming his head as hard as he could into his attacker’s face.

The man fell back, and Dylan flipped around, scooting backward on his butt. The knife was close. He stretched for it, his fingers closing around the handle…

“Drop it,” the man said. Dylan glanced up at the barrel of a gun, pointing right at his head. His eyes widened in shock. _He’d had the fucking gun the whole time, of course he had, stupid, Dylan, stupid…_

“No, you drop it,” another voice said, and Dylan almost sobbed in relief. _Lizzie_. He fell back against the floor, panting, and closed his eyes. There was a considerable commotion that he ignored, concentrating on just breathing, adrenaline sending tremors up and down his legs.

“It’s Fucci,” said a voice above him, “I’m going to help you up, okay?” Dylan opened his eyes and smiled, reaching with his right arm for the hand that Fucci offered. Fucci’s other hand grabbed Dylan’s pants and hauled them up over his waist as he lifted Dylan to his feet.

“Thank you,” He whispered, reaching down to zip them up. The motion made his hand ache. His pants hung loose on his hips without the button to close them. His knees buckled and he slumped into the taller man, mumbling an apology into his shirt. He felt Fucci’s chest rumble as he shouted for a medic, and then the world greyed out and he was gone.

++

He woke up with a weight on his chest and he panicked, eyes flying open, trying to sit up and push it away. It was hard to move; he was all tangled up in something. The weight lifted.

“Sorry! Sorry!” said a voice, and Andy’s face swam into view. “I’m so sorry, Dylan, it’s just me.”

“Andy,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” Andy said again. “I fell asleep.”

Andy’s face disappeared and there was a grinding noise, and Dylan felt the surface beneath him move. A bed, he realized. A mechanical bed… there was a beeping sound, lights, background noise. He was raised to a reclined seated position and he looked around, taking in the curtains and the monitor beside him. “I’m in the hospital,” he concluded out loud.

“Yeah you are, genius,” Andy replied, coming back into view.

“Andy,” he said again, reaching. His left hand was bandaged, as was his right arm. There was an IV in his right hand.

“I’m here,” Andy replied, catching his right hand gently, interlocking fingers. Dylan watched as Andy’s other hand lifted to stroke back his hair.

He took a deep breath, and then another, and tried to smile. His chin wobbled.

“It’s okay,” Andy said, “You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan answered. “You must have been worried.”

Andy’s eyes overflowed with tears. “You don’t ever need to be sorry for this,” Andy told him, leaning down to look Dylan in the eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I told you I’d stay out of it, and I didn’t.”

“You were targeted, Dylan. That’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t keep a low profile.” The bed shifted as Andy found a place to perch, and then Dylan was scooped up in a hug.

“Shhh,” Andy chided. “Just… you’re alive, and I’m so grateful.”

“You know he, he didn’t… I’m fine, Andy,” Dylan mumbled.

“You’re an idiot,” Andy replied, rocking him. “It’s okay to be not fine for a minute.”

“Okay.” Dylan wrapped his arms around Andy, mindful of the tubing, and buried his face in the other man’s sweater, breathing deeply to capture the scent of him. “Okay, I’m not fine,” he whispered, and then he was crying, and Andy was holding him, and it was good and safe.

+++

He slept for a while and when he woke, Andy was gone and Julian was there, looking down with dark, serious eyes. “Keeping watch?” he murmured, voice rough, trying for levity with a smile. Julian helped him sit up and fed him some ice chips.

“Yes,” Julian answered, not smiling back. He pulled a nearby chair around and sat.

“I’m fine,” Dylan said after a moment.

“You have multiple lacerations on your hands, arms, abdomen and back, bruised ribs…”

“The morphine is masking all of those wonderfully,” Dylan interjected.

“…and a fractured cheekbone,” Julian finished, giving Dylan a dirty look.

“He elbowed me in the face.”

“Time was, you would have come out of a fight like that on top.”

“I was drugged.”

“Even still.”

Dylan sighed. “If you’re trying to tell me I’ve gotten soft, there’s no need. The evidence is clear.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to tell you that you scared me, you fool. We were quite close once, if you recall.”

Dylan’s expression softened. “I care about you too,” he replied. “You’re my oldest friend, Julian.”

“And you, mine.” Julian glanced away for a moment, and then leaned forward. “I heard you were planning an undercover operation. You should have called me.”

“I didn’t go through with it.”

“But if you had?”

“Trust me, you would have known. You would have been there.” Dylan smiled. “New York’s finest are great at what they do, but they’re not as good as you are.”

“Thank you.” Julian breathed a sigh of relief. 

They sat in companionable silence for a while and Dylan was starting to drift off when Julian suddenly spoke up again. “I remember, shortly after you left the Agency, I got into a spot of trouble in Turkey. I woke up in a room like this, and you were there. I never did find out how you knew.”

“I still have assets in the field,” Dylan replied, in a tone that made it clear he wouldn’t explain further.

“I was grateful to see you,” Julian finished. “Today, when I heard what happened, I felt afraid. I was afraid I wouldn’t have a chance to tell you how much I appreciated you being there.”

Dylan leaned forward as much as he could, managing to grasp Julian’s hand. “I know,” he said.

Julian squeezed his hand. “It’s… nice, being back in New York,” he said. “I’m glad I left the Agency. I like being able to pick where I work. I like being close to friends.”

Dylan smiled. A moment passed between them, and then a wave of tiredness overtook him, and Julian clucked his tongue like a mother hen, helping Dylan lie back and fussing over his pillow and blanket.

“I better go before your new partner shows up,” Julian said finally, patting Dylan on the knee.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on me,” Dylan replied.

“Someone has to,” Julian replied, and slipped out the door like a shadow.

Minutes later, Lizzie walked in, coffee in hand. Dylan smiled – Julian always had a knack for perfect timing, he thought.

“Look who’s up,” Lizzie said, breaking into his reverie.

“Lizzie!” he exclaimed. “I have so many questions. How did you find me?”

“Tracked your phone.”

“Who is he? Is he in jail? Has he confessed to other killings? Now that I’ve met him, I’m sure he’s had more than four victims. He was experienced.”

“He’s dead.”

That brought Dylan up short. “What? What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Dylan just gave her a blank look. “I entered the room and ordered him to drop his weapon. Fucci and Harris were covering. He swung around with his weapon pointed at me. It looked like he was going to pull the trigger, and Fucci shot him.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?” Lizzie had seated herself in the chair that Julian had just abandoned; now she leaned forward to take his hand. He watched her thumb rub up and across his knuckles.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Dylan, look at me.” Dylan looked up; his eyes wide. He hadn’t even realized he wasn’t looking at her. “Talk to me,” she said. “I don’t like secrets, remember?”

“I suppose… I thought I’d have an opportunity to confront him when I wasn’t under the influence – when I was in possession of my full faculties.”

“To get closure,” Lizzie suggested.

“To show him I’m strong,” Dylan corrected, despite the wave of shame it caused him to say it. She was opening up to him, and he knew he had to do the same.

“Dylan – if he hadn’t brought both a knife and a gun to that fight, you would have won it, under the influence or not. I saw the ending. You would have come out on top.”

“You think so?”

“I’m certain of it. Hell, you might have come out on top even if we hadn’t arrived when we did.”

Dylan’s faced darkened. He tightened his grip on her hand. “No, Lizzie,” he said. “I was done. If you hadn’t shown up when you did…”

“If I recall correctly, you saved my life not that long ago,” she replied. “In fact, you’ve done that twice now. I was due.” Dylan opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him. “I may not have a hundred degrees,” she said, “But I know one thing. You’ll make yourself crazy with all the what ifs. Don’t do it. Just be happy you’re here and focus on recovery.”

Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled. “Believe me,” he said, looking past her, “I’m happy I’m here.” Lizzie twisted in her seat, following his gaze. Andy was leaning in the door frame, a grin on his face. His eyes were locked on Dylan.

“Oh,” she said, dropping Dylan’s hand. “I’ll leave you two alone!” she hopped out of the chair, squeezing Andy’s arm as she went by. Voices laced with identical laughter wished her a goodbye.

“I’m happy you’re here too,” Andy said, taking her place once she was gone, raising Dylan’s hand to his lips. “The doctor says you’ll probably be heading home in three or four days.”

“Three or four days, so that’ll be….”

“Monday, most likely,” Andy filled in.

Dylan smiled. “I love Mondays,” he said.

+++

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Instinct fic and I know it's a bit OOC. It's sort of canon compliant ish if we stick it in the first season before Episode 10 because Lizzie hasn't met Julian yet in this one. Also the fic implies a friendship between Andy and Fucci that hasn't been developed in the show, but in my head it's a thing, so... 
> 
> Because Instinct is so new there are some unanswered questions for me, like does Andy know who Julian is and if so what does he think about Dylan spending time with him, so I decided not to have them interact so that I could avoid trying to figure that out. 
> 
> Also, I know that if this takes place before Episode 10 then we don't (SPOILER ALERT) know that Sousa is a bad man yet, but he of course would know and I couldn't figure out how to write him in an authentic way, so he's just conveniently taken this week off. 
> 
> The title is a song lyric from the Jimmy Buffet song, "Come Monday".


End file.
